Board James
by Dennisauthor
Summary: Allen and Sharon buy a new house. It's the house where Board James grew up. Strange occurrences frighten the newly weds. When Allen wakes up, he finds himself sitting before James, Mike, and Bootsy; they've been sucked into Jame's newest made-up game, Board James. They must play to completion or be forever stuck within the living game.


Board James

Board James, the character and web series, is owned by James Rolfe and Cinemassacre Productions, but I'm writing this story anyway, because I think James will like it.

Board James by Aaron Dennis is a work of fanfiction, and it was not created for profit. It is illegal to sell Board James by Aaron Dennis for profit as it is illegal for anyone apart from the owners of the rights to Board James and his likeness to earn a profit.

Published on Smashwords October 5th 2016

Do not sell this work of fanfiction for monetary gain of any kind.

Please visit and watch the Board James web series. If you believe this story will make a great movie, let James know by reviewing this after you finish reading.

Chapter One

"Okay," James started. "Here we are again; it's the night before Halloween, and time to review a classic board game. What do we have? One Night, Ultimate Werewolf…okay." Indifferently, he tossed the box aside to reach for another one. "Level Seven, Escape." He turned the box over a few times, shook his head while wincing, and tossed it aside as well. "What's this?"

Amidst other, colorful boxes was a small, square box. A picture of a goofy ghost was on the front.

"Ghost Blitz, and look, there's a green bottle on the ground next to him. Is that beer? Is he drunk? Is that why it's Ghost Blitz? 'Cause he's blitzed? He sure as fuck looks tweaked." James started to crack open the box, but paused. "Major fun award? What the Hell is that? Well, whatever. Let's get started."

After dropping the top, James pulled out a deck of cards and a baggy with game pieces. "Let's see; we got cards with pictures of the ghost. This one has a chair. This one a mouse, and what're these? Oh, this is the chair, but it's red. Why's the chair on the card blue? And what's this piece? A butt plug? Oh, that's the ghost."

Once he finished rifling through the game pieces, he scratched his head in confusion, picked up the tiny manual, and read through it. "A reaction game as fast as lightning for two to eight bright minds. Yeah, no dumbasses allowed. Story and object of the game– Object? Do they mean objective? Anyway….

"Balduin, the house ghost," he stopped speaking to laugh. "House ghost? Is that like house…? Never mind, we won't go there. So, Balduin found an old camera in the castle cellar. I like where this is goin'; a ghost director. Kind of reminds me of something, but I can't put my finger on it…." Trailing off, the reviewer readjusted his ball cap then returned his gaze to the manual. "Immediately, he photographed everything that he loves to make disappear. So, it's like a camera for pictures not filming; too bad. I wonder if he takes a picture of his ghost shit, 'cause ghost dookie vanishes, get it?" James smiled.

There wasn't anyone else there besides James. To whom he was speaking was as much a mystery as to where his friends had gone. Word was, Board James was a serial killer, a madman cutting the balls off his mates whenever they got tired of his shitty games.

"Unfortunately, the enchanted camera takes many photos in the wrong color. What? Sometimes, the green bottle is white; other times, it's blue. Looking at the photos, Balduin doesn't really remember what he wanted to make disappear next. Yeah, and I don't remember the last time I took a shit or what color it was. Guess I should've taken a picture…now that's a shitty picture."

Frowning so hard his lips curled down, James's eyes went wide as he nodded. "Can you help him with his haunting and quickly name the right piece, or even make it disappear by yourself?" He threw the red, chair, game piece into the corner. "It's gone, vanished, banished to the black hole of Uranus," he asserted.

The game reviewer shook his head in consternation. Then, cracking the manual open, he perused the actual game rules.

"Ghost Blitz can be played in two different ways, Ghost Blitz Grab, and Ghost Blitz Shout. What's the difference? The set up for both games is the same.

"Place the pieces in a circle, shuffle the cards, the last one in _the cellar_ goes first. What does that mean? I guess the last player to join the game draws a card first.

"So, you draw the card, and if on the card—which shows two pieces of varying colors—one of the pieces is the right color, the first person to grab it wins the round, and gets to keep the card as a reward, but has to return the piece, and the cycle continues. If none of the colors are right then someone has to grab a piece that's not shown on the card and isn't a color shown on the card. Okay?

"Finally, at the end, the player with the most cards in the reward pile is the winner, but if someone grabs the wrong piece, they have to give cards to the person who did grab the right piece…so, alright, it isn't too complicated, but I can't do this alone; time to call some friends."

James reached for the phone, but it was the Dream Phone, and his sourpuss contorted into a monster frown. His wide eyes bored holes through the pink toy, and he knocked it over with a backhand before grabbing his old school landline to dial. After punching in the numbers, the phone rang, followed by a voice.

"Hello?"

"Motherfucker Mike?"

"What's up, James?"

"Come over. It's time to play a game."

"Again?"

"Yes, again; it's always time to play a game," James said, cryptically.

Sighing, Mike replied, "I don't know…last time we played a game, it didn't work out for anyone."

"C'mon, man, just get off your ass and come over!"

"Can I finish my Hot Pocket?"

"Fine!"

With that, James slammed the phone down. He shook his head in aggravation before coming to his feet. He then left the game room, passed by the basement sink, stopped with his back to it, turned slightly, and glanced at the wet Mr. Bucket toy.

Upstairs, he went to the kitchen to grab sodas and chips in preparation for Mike's arrival. "Why do they always gotta' give me shit? I just want to play a game. Isn't that what reminiscing over childhood is about? Playing games with friends, that's what it's about, and I had a great childhood; great parents, good friends, and every Friday, when the school week was over, all any kid wanted to do was immerse himself in games, forget the bullshit of class and homework, and just rot out the brain with mindless fun."

He paused after setting the chips and soda on the table. Removing his ball cap to run fingers through his hair, he set his jaw. _There was that one time, though, that awful, dark day, that blackest of nights; I just wanted…I just wanted to play…Board James, the Game._

A knock at the door drew his attention. "Come in!"

Mike, a wiry man with poofy hair, entered the kitchen. "Hey, dude, what are we playin'?"

"You'll see. It's a scary game," James nodded, stoically.

"I don't know if I like scary games."

"You'll like this scary game."

"It's not the Ouija Board is it?" there was a slight tremble in Mike's voice.

"No, it's not the Ouija Board!"

"Dream Phone?"

"No!"

"M-Mr. Bucket?"

"No! Damn it!"

"Mr. Bucket, fuck it!"

"Yeah," James chortled. "C'mon, and grab the drinks."

From the kitchen, they marched back downstairs into the basement. Beyond the posters of scary movies, _The Twilight Zone_ show poster, and video game banners, they sat on the ground beside the box for Ghost Blitz. Mike picked it up.

"Is this motherfucker drunk?"

"Right," James asked.

"He looks like he's blitzed."

"That's what I said."

The door suddenly came open, and another man in a Toronto Blue Jays cap stuck his nose in. "Heya' fellas', what do we got today?"

"Bad Luck Bootsy!" the two others exclaimed in unison.

"We, uh, playin' a little Candy Land?"

"No one's fuckin' playin' Candy Land," Mike replied.

"We never get to play Candy Land," Bootsy frowned.

"You remember what happened last time we played," James asked.

"Not really," Bootsy mused, tapping his finger to his pouting, bottom lip. "Was that the time you bit my dick off with a shark?"

"Just sit the fuck down," James started. "Shut the fuck up, and play some fuckin' Ghost Blitz."

"Ghost Blitz?" Bootsy took the lid of the box. "Is he drunk?"

"He's not fuckin' drunk," James yelled.

"Gee willickers, James, you don't hafta' bite my fuckin' head off…again."

"It wasn't just the head last time," Mike snickered.

"No, it was my whole, damned dick!"

James lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So, how do we play this _Ghost Blitz_ ," Mike asked.

Before James had a chance to answer, Bootsy shoved the ghost right up his asshole.

"That's not a butt plug, that's the ghost," James reprimanded.

"Well, cheesers, cut a guy some slack," Bootsy huffed and replaced the ghost with the rest of the pieces.

"Alright," James began. "It's easy–"

"It says there's two ways to play," Mike interrupted. "Ghost Blitz Grab and Ghost Blitz Shout."

"I'm getting to it," James chuckled.

"I'm just wondering what the difference is," Mike said.

"Me, too," Bootsy added.

"I'm getting to it!" James barked. "Listen, both games are the same, but in Grab, you just grab the right piece."

"Which is the right piece?" Mike interjected.

"Is this the whole game," Bootsy asked. "Candy Land has a board and everything."

"We're not playin' Candy Land," the other two shouted.

"Damn it, you assholes," James said. "Just listen; in Grab, you grab the right piece, either the piece on the card, or if the card doesn't show the right piece, you grab the piece that isn't shown, and the piece that isn't the color of a piece on the card. In Shout, it's the same, only you shout the piece you want, like, say, _red chair_!"

After a moment of arguing about the correct way to play the games, Bootsy readjusted his sitting position, and knocked over all the pieces with his shoe. "Bootsy," they shouted.

While James set everything back up, Mike snuck a handful of cards from the deck into his pockets. Finally, they started the game. First, Bootsy drew a purple ghost sitting in a gray chair, and since none of those pieces were correct, James snatched the green bottle, replaced it, and kept the card. Then, Mike drew a card showing a gray ghost in a purple chair.

"What the fuck, it's just reversed," he complained.

"I got it," Bootsy shouted, and snatched the blue book.

"No, wait," Mike snapped. "That's wrong!"

"How's it wrong?" Bootsy howled.

"That chair's blue, so you can't grab the blue book."

"No," James mediated. "That chair's purple, so he got the right piece."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Mike lamented. "It looks blue to me."

"Look, just keep playing. It's my turn," James said. He drew a white mouse leaning against a red book, so Mike went for the ghost piece. "See? Isn't it fun? Don't you guys like playing a game?"

Mike and Bootsy traded a tiresome look. "This game sucks, James," Mike said.

"Yeah," Bootsy agreed. "Let's play something else."

Frowning a monstrous glare, James's expression instilled fear in the hearts of the men surrounding the game. They looked from him to each other, their faces pallid, and slowly made to get up.

"No one leaves until the game is finished," James admonished. "That's the rule. That's always been the rule…we can't leave a game unfinished…right," he asked slowly, carefully.

"Uh, yeah," Bootsy stammered. "Wha-whatever you say, James."

"Yeah, we don't want any trouble," Mike agreed.

Chapter Two

It was a beautiful, two story house in Philly. Allen stood with his fists on his hips, taking in the sight of white walls, the oaks growing up on either side of the home, the green yard. He turned to look at his new bride, a petite blonde with a round ass.

"I think this is the one, Sharon," he said.

Smiling, she looked back at him, her new husband; the horror writer. He was nerdy, but he was a good guy, and always upbeat and excitable.

"Let's wait for the realtor and get a look inside before we make a choice," Sharon replied. "We just moved here, and I still need to find a job, plus we probably want to be close to a school…right?"

"Oh, yeah…right, but hey, don't worry about the job just yet; something will turn up, and my latest release is bringing in plenty."

"Well, hello, you two!" a cheery voice called. The newly weds turned around to see Gabby, their realtor. Having pulled up in her Prius, they hadn't heard her approach. The woman, an aging brunette with a plump figure, grinned. "Well, good morning, folks."

"Hey, great to see you," they said to her.

"So, you found this place all right," Gabby asked.

A gust of wind brought with it the fall of yellow, orange, and brown leaves. Gabby tugged at her blazer while Allen pushed his hair back.

"Wasn't too hard," Sharon said. "Show us inside? This one's about to wet himself…."

"I just think it's neat," Allen chuckled.

Gabby marched up to the door, unlocked it, and motioned them inside. The interior was spacious with soft carpeting. Stairs led up to the second floor. During the modest tour, Allen found himself instantly swarmed by childhood memories.

"I can remember playing games with friends," he said. The two women looked at him. "This house, it…it just brings up great memories. I had this friend, who loved board games so much, he used to make up his own, and then forced us to play them," he chuckled.

"You never told me that," Sharon looked a bit shaken up, but then she smiled.

He smiled back, "Oh, yeah…well…you know, I, uh–"

"You didn't keep in touch with any of those guys?"

Allen furrowed his brow in wonder. He recalled flashes and images of young boys sitting on the hard, basement floor. They surrounded boxes of games, game pieces; he recalled the echoing clamor of dice striking the ground. Lost in the image, blurred faces passed him by.

"I said, you don't talk to them anymore," she asked, again.

"Huh? Oh, no. I think something happened; someone moved away or something, and then there was high school, when I met you, so, you know, I was pretty much smitten by then."

"You two are so cute," Gabby interrupted. "I think you'll really like it here. It's a great city, and this is a great neighborhood."

"I'm surprised this house is even for sale," Sharon remarked.

"Truthfully, so am I," Gabby said. "It's been on the market for, oh, almost twenty years."

"How come it's so hard to sell," Sharon asked.

As the girls gabbed, Allen walked off to the kitchen. The women followed behind, but he was oblivious to their presence; something about the house had lulled him into a state of mental distress. He was unable to recall what did happen to his school chums.

"I can't even remember their names," he whispered to himself.

"What's that," Sharon touched his arm.

He looked back to her. "Nothing," he said and took a breath, scrutinizing the room. "Everything looks good to me," he mumbled.

"I think I like it, too," she nodded.

"Well, if everything's to your liking, we can pull out the paperwork," Gabby said.

She went to the counter next to the space where the fridge belonged. As she and Sharon milled over the documents, the image of a white fridge laden with goofy drawings accosted Allen. He chewed his thumbnail for a second. Then, Sharon chastised him. He pulled his finger from his mouth.

 _There were five of us, right? Wasn't there a girl? I remember two boys with hats. What were their names?_ An oppressive mood overtook him with the speed and ferocity of lightning.

"And this is a great time to buy," Gabby said, but Allen was drifting in an out.

He walked from the kitchen—Sharon leering at his withdrawn behavior—and stopped by the stairs. He placed his hands on the railing, gripping the wood tightly. He then recalled images of a bedroom laden with video game posters, but it wasn't his room; he didn't have pictures of monster films like the room in his flashback.

"It was that boy's room, the one who made those board games…board games…."

"Allen," Sharon yelled. "Come sign!"

"O-okay, honey," he replied, jogging back into the kitchen.

Once everything was in order, they walked Gabby back out to her Prius. She thanked them, waved, and hugged Sharon before shaking Allen's hand. "I think you two will be very happy here."

"Yeah, me, too," he said.

"What the Hell's wrong with you?" Sharon snipped as soon as the realtor drove out of sight.

"Yeah, I don't know, honey; I guess I have a lot on my mind."

"Well…we did just buy a house."

"Yeah, we did, didn't we," he chuckled. "Wow," he grinned, turning back to gaze at his new home, yet something was different.

The gusts of wind were colder, more leaves swirled about, and then he noticed the neighbor staring at them. She was a heavy set, scowling, old woman with gray, unkempt hair. She held her pink robe tightly to her figure, glaring at the newly weds.

The two waved at her, but she remained hard-looking, granite faced. "What's her problem," Sharon asked.

"I don't know…let's get settled in."

"Yeah."

Chapter Three

"Let's play something else," Mike said.

"Candy Land," Bootsy asked, eagerly.

"No!" the others yelled in unison.

With Ghost Blitz stowed atop a plethora of other games, everyone started shuffling through boxes. There were numerous games in the basement; from wall-to-wall, they were stacked. Many of them were the classics; Monopoly, Connect Four, Hero's Quest, but there were some obscured ones as well.

Mike wanted to play Cross Fire, but Bootsy didn't want to twiddle his thumbs, waiting for a turn. James replied that he hadn't been invited to play anyway. Bootsy pouted, got up, and made for the door.

"Gee willickers, James, if ya' want me to leave, just say so."

"Can't leave," James said, gravely. He wore another, monster frown, and he slowly shook his head from side-to-side; his stare unblinking. "Gotta' stay until the game's finished."

"But we ain't picked a game yet," Bootsy complained, stomping his foot.

"It's all a game, bro," Mike said. He patted Bootsy's shoulder when the young man sat back down. "You remember, don't you?"

"Well…if we're gonna' play somethin'," Bootsy mused. "How about another game with cards?"

He then picked up a box for Mystery Rummy, case number 3; Jekyll and Hide. It was a small, brown box with the picture of a magnifying lens over the words _case number 3_. Beneath the lens were two halves of a face; one half of Jekyll, and one half of Hide.

"No," James shouted and knocked the box from his friend's hand. "I don't like Jekyll and Hide."

"Why, what's wrong with 'em?"

"He has eyeballs for testicles," James answered.

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "And he wears his underwear backwards."

As James nodded, Bootsy said, "So? I wear my underwear backwards!"

"What," Mike was shocked.

"Why would you do that?" James yelled.

"I don't have to pull 'em off to take a shit that way," Bootsy elucidated.

They all spent a moment ripping on each other about their weird habits. Mike was called a cheater, and when he denied it, Bootsy reached into Mike's back pocket and pulled out a handful of Ghost Blitz cards. In return, Mike pointed out that Bootsy sucked his own dick, to which Bootsy responded by reminding them he no longer had a dick because James was a psychopath.

"That's true, I guess," Mike said. "No one else locks his friends in the basement and forces them to play made up games at knife point."

"I didn't do that," James argued. "You guys always exaggerate! I just want to play a game. Don't you guys like playing games? What else would you be doing? Sucking your dick," he asked Bootsy.

"Don't got one anymore!"

"And you," James said to Mike.

"Let's just fuckin' play this Rummy game."

"Fine," James acquiesced. He cracked open the box, which unfolded like a book. Inside the left cover was a picture of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the text explained how the writer had never been healthy, had gotten his start by writing _Treasure Island_ , and then that he wrote _The Curious Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide_. The other side of the box held a manual and two sets of cards. James started reading the manual. "Welcome to the world of Mystery Rummy games. This is the third game in the series. It goes on to explain the basic goal, which is to score one hundred points. You score points by _melds_ of Evidence cards, and playing Gavel cards that have points."

"I don't get it," Bootsy said, fidgeting with his shoelaces.

"Hold on a second," James said. "If Dr. Jekyll is face up on the Dual Identity Card at the end of the game, all your J cards double in value. If Hide is up, your H cards double."

"Maybe we should play something simpler," Mike suggested.

"That's against the rules," James sighed. "You picked it, we started, now, we have to finish it."

"Feels like we been tryin' ta' finish it for twenty years," Bootsy chuckled.

Mike and James traded a look then nodded in agreement. "Anyway," James said, "The basics of this game are based on Rummy; players make melds with the Evidence cards of the same color, the Gavel cards, however, which don't meld, add a strategic element. Luckily, there's instructions on the cards, which remind you what they do."

While James kept talking, Bootsy grew agitated. He changed his sitting position various times before knocking over his soda can, which exploded in foam, covering Mike and James. They wiped the bubbles from their eyes and glared at the goofy kid. He smiled shyly, waving like a child by curling and uncurling the fingers of his hand.

"Sorry, fellas'," he said. "I don't know how to play Rummy."

"Well, you're gonna' learn!" James gave a formal nod.

"Fuck that," Mike snipped. "This is for two players only. Let him deal."

"Yeah, alright; Bootsy, you deal, and make sure Motherfucker Mike doesn't cheat."

"Sure thing, pal," Bootsy said, accepting the deck of cards.

He first pulled out the Dual Identity Card, and laid it upright to reveal Mr. Hide. Thunder echoed from outside. The lights flickered, causing Mike and Bootsy to recoil. For only a second, as the darkness came and went, James had appeared to the them a nerdy man, an angry nerd wearing a buttoned, white collared shirt complete with pens in a pocket guard, a set of eye glasses, no hat, and a malicious grin.

"What," James asked.

"N-nothing," Mike said.

"Deal the cards, Bootsy!"

Again, thunder rumbled through the basement; there was definitely a storm raging outside, not that any of them ever went outside; they were a rather dorky bunch. Bootsy dealt the players each ten cards. At the end of the first hand, James had four Robert Louis Stevenson cards for twelve points, three Mr. Utterson cards, which added up to another six points because the Hide card was face up, three Poole the Butler cards for twelve points, and six more points from three Dr. Jekyll's Theory cards.

"Cool beans," Bootsy said. "James has thirty six points."

"Wait a minute," James said slowly. Frowning so immensely the corners of his lips reached his jaw, he laid down the Transformation card, becoming Hide, and changing his six point meld of Poole the Butler cards to a twelve point meld. "That's forty two points, assholes!"

"Why we gotta' be assholes," Mike asked.

"I'll fuckin' tell you why, dick shit," James growled, and again, thunder shook the basement, the lights flickered, and James's appearance shifted to that of a most angry nerd. "Because this game is fuckin' caca-dookie; it's a bunch of fuckin' buffalo, diarrhea, dog shit!" It's, it's, it's–"

"James," the others yelled in unison.

"Oh, uh…sorry," the game reviewer said, shaking his head. He then noticed the glasses in one hand and his hat in the other. He got up and ran off, saying, "Just find another game!"

Leaving his buddies for a moment, he approached the basement sink, the one with the Mr. Bucket toy. Running some water over his hands, he splashed his face, and looked in the mirror.

"Board James," the nerd taunted from within the mirror.

"No," James shook his head, but the nerd nodded. "Leave me alone. You…me, we're not…."

"We're not what, James? The same? Oh, yes, we are; people, all people are a commingling of good and evil. You know what you have to do."

"Shut up! Leave me alone!"

"James," Mike called. "Who the fuck are you talkin' to?"

"No one! Did you guys pick a game?"

"Candy Land?" Bootsy shouted. "Ouch! James, Mike hit me."

"Good," James said.

"We still have to finish Rummy. Someone has to get a hundred points," Mike declared.

"Yeah, that's right," the nerd grinned, his eyes shining with delight. "Go in there and…finish the game."

James ground his teeth, frowned, widened his eyes, and nodded.

Chapter Four

Living in Philly was splendiferous. Allen and Sharon loved their home and the neighborhood, except for the weird, old woman. She only ever wore her pink robe, and she always looked like she had just rolled out of bed, and all she ever did, when she was outside, was stand on her stoop and stare holes at the newly weds.

Regardless of her odd machinations, Allen spent the bulk of his time preparing his new, writing room. Initially, he considered setting up in the attic, but it was stuffy up there. Sharon told him to set up in the den, but he knew she enjoyed meeting new people and bringing them over for drinks and little parties, and the den was soon going to turn into a hangout. He then settled for the garage; it was spacious enough to accommodate their two cars, and since he was far from a handyman, he owned no tools, which provided him plenty of room to set up a small, foldable table, bring out a chair, and set up his laptop.

In the meantime, since Halloween was quickly approaching, Sharon spent her time decorating the home, both inside and out. Paper ghosts and frilly, foldout pumpkins were displayed. There were bands of black and orange tissue paper, fuzzy spiders, fake webs, plastic bats, and an orange bowl of candy from which Allen occasionally nabbed a treat.

A week at their new home passed them by in a happy haze. One night, though, while Sharon snored comfortably next to her hubby, he awoke to a racket. Holding his breath and rubbing his eyes, he strained to hear. There was something beating around or scurrying downstairs. It came and went and came back. Frowning, he wondered if it was rats; Gabby had said the home was clean, he hadn't seen or heard anything to the contrary until that night.

Lithely, he stepped out of bed; enough moonlight bled into the room to reveal the way to the door. Beyond the door, there was only darkness, so Allen ran his hand along the length of the wall until he came to the stairs. There, he stopped to listen. Something was certainly making racket beneath him.

Carefully, he worked his way downstairs, following the noise. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. Upon entering the kitchen, which was also partially lighted by the moon, the noise died out. He flicked the light on, squinting until his eyes readjusted. He looked, he listened, but there was nothing, except for the bowl of candy, which was devoid of candy, yet there was a plastic planchette inside.

"That's weird," he mused, but didn't think it as important as the noise. For a moment, he followed the walls from the kitchen to the living room, keeping his ear just a hair from the walls. He didn't hear anything. "Must be a crawlspace or something. Some dumb rat or squirrel probably got stuck for a minute…."

After shutting off the light, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness, wandered back to the steps, and started his ascent. Back in the bedroom, he lied down beside his beloved, snuggled up to her, and fell asleep.

Another few days drifted by in wedded bliss, but Allen found himself awakened every night by the strange noise. He told Sharon about it, and she told him to just hire an exterminator. He wasn't sure it was rats and figured that if he found the crawlspace, sealing it was the solution, so he looked all over, until he realized he didn't know a thing about architecture, foundations, or anything regarding how houses were constructed.

"If you call the exterminator, they'll find the crawlspace, Allen; it's what they do. They don't just kills bugs and rodents, they set it up so no more can get in," Sharon snipped.

"I guess you're right…."

That morning as a chilly wind blew, and the sky threatened rain, Allen reached for his cell phone to look up a local exterminator, but to his dismay, he had no connection. He tried Sharon's phone, but she had no bars either. Finally, he went to his laptop, but their modem was also on the fritz.

"Fuck, you'll have to call the cable company, too," Sharon told him.

"How am I supposed to call them if I can't get their number?"

"Well…you could go next door and ask ole', miss, weird woman if you can use her internet," Sharon grinned.

"I'd rather put my balls in a blender!"

"Then, use a phonebook, Einstein."

"A phonebook? Do we even have one?"

"I saw one in a drawer in the kitchen."

Shrugging, he bolted off to the kitchen. After pulling open a few drawers, which jingled with clanking silverware or rattled with loose batteries, he found the phonebook. He tossed it onto the counter, and reached for his landline, a pink phone. He took hold of it and looked at it.

"Why did she get a pink phone?" he scrutinized it, carefully. There was something inexplicably ominous about the phone. "Oh, well…."

The first order of business was finding the number for the cable company. He gave them a call, and they replied that they were working on it; that there was a problem nearby caused by the approaching storm, which had knocked over a tree that had severed the cable. Twenty four hours to a resolution, they claimed. He asked if they were going to cut twenty fours hours off his bill for the month; they weren't. Next, he called the exterminator.

The guy said he was going to be out first thing in the morning. Allen asked about finding the rodents, and the man replied he guaranteed his work. Satisfied, the writer hung up, moseyed back to the garage, cracked open his laptop, and started pounding out his next story.

One, more, sleepless night ensued. The rattling and scuttling sounded louder than ever. Allen wondered how it was that Sharon didn't wake, but then again, she was snoring pretty loudly, and if that didn't wake her, some rats weren't going to do the job.

Awake and angry, Allen approached the kitchen. There, he flicked on the light, started a pot of coffee, and plunked down at the table. Yawning, he found it strange that every time he made it to the kitchen, the noise vanished, but then the coffee brewed, and by the time he finished his first cup, the sun was up, and so was Sharon.

They ended up taking a fun shower together after which, they ate breakfast. By the time they washed their bowls, a knock on the door resounded. Allen went to see if the exterminator had arrived, and in fact, he had.

"You Allen," the short, chunky, greasy man in faded blue jumpsuit and ball cap asked.

"Yes, Sir. Come in."

"So's I took a walk 'round the place, and didn't see no way for rats ta' get inside, but I wanna' get a ladder an' check the soffit, but before I do that, I figured why not say hello to my customers."

"Hello," Allen said.

"Mind if I use yer' toilet?" the exterminator interrupted.

"It's just down there," Sharon said. "Mister…?"

"Creasy, Bob Creasy."

The man tottered off, leaving the couple to look at each other. "At least he's here on time," Allen shrugged.

A moment later, Creasy returned, belched, patted his belly, and said, "So's, I was sayin', if the soffit looks good, I check the basement, and I know, that's usually where people want me to look first, it's where they expect the trouble ta' come from, but 'round here, basements are usually pretty tight, and I didn't see no way in from outside anyhow."

"We don't have a basement," Sharon chortled.

"Sure, ya' do." The exterminator looked insulted or skeptical.

"Buddy," Allen said. "We've been living here for almost two weeks. There's no basement."

"C'mooon," Creasy was in disbelief. "What're you talkin' about? There's a basement. I got the floor plans right here." From his back pocket, he pulled out the schematics for their home. "I always get the prints faxed from city hall; it's the only way to find every possible point of entry. I told yas' my work is guaranteed."

Sharon and Allen passed a confused look. They followed Creasy to the kitchen, or rather just outside the kitchen. There, he stood before the wall, turned his blueprints one way then the other, blinked, grimaced, stuck his nose to the prints, and looked at the wall.

"It should be right here," he said.

"I see a wall," Allen said, slowly.

Frowning, Creasy turned to face him. "Hey, it ain't the first time someone bought a house with a boarded up basement."

"Really," Sharon asked. "Why would someone do that?"

"Hey, people do weird things," Creasy replied. "I am not one to judge the many foibles of my fellow 'uman beings."

"Okay," Allen trailed off, looking to his wife. "So, there is a basement here?"

Creasy stuck his ear to the wall, banged a couple of time with his knuckles, scrunched his face, and concluded that it sounded hollow. "Probably just drywalled right over the door. No big deal; I'll get my jigsaw."

"This is so weird," Sharon whispered.

"I know; it's right out of a horror flick. Maybe, a bunch of kids were murdered down there, and the killer just sealed off the entrance. Hey! Maybe, that's why this house never sold!"

They shared a laugh. By then, Creasy waddled back in, plugged in his saw, and started cutting out a small section of the drywall. The newly weds cringed from the sound of the tiny blade, and Sharon eyed the dust accumulating on the floor. When Creasy stopped, she asked if he was going to clean it up. He nodded.

"But anyways," he said. "Lookie here. That's a door back there. If you got rats, they might well be in there, or they might be trapped in there and tryin' ta' get out."

"Okay," Allen nodded. "Well, I guess do what you have to do…I'll be in the garage."

"Okey-doke."

"Allen," Sharon yelled over the buzzing of the saw. "Shouldn't someone keep an eye on him?"

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. He's…I don't know…."

Allen looked his wife over. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and though she was a young woman, she looked haggard, or tired, or perhaps just worried. Without her makeup, she also looked a little meaner.

"I'm sure it's fine. Why don't you go out and get more candy. It's just another week before Halloween."

"Yeah, okay…."

Chapter Five

Motherfucker Mike had managed to score a hundred points during the rounds of Mystery Rummy. James concluded Mike had cheated, but none of them were able to pinpoint how or when. As they eyed one another, sitting in a circle around the scattered cards, Bootsy asked what game was next.

"How about a _fun_ game," Mike suggested.

"They're all fun games," James retorted.

"No…they're not," Mike replied, lackadaisically. "I kinda' wanna' play a video game. What about Street Fighter 2?"

"Street Fighter 2, the board game," James asked, pulling out his hand drawn board.

"No," the others shouted.

"Bootsy, find us something," Mike ordered.

"Sure thing, chief," he said. As he came to his feet, he kicked out to stand, and knocked over the orange bowl of Halloween candy. "Oops, sorry fellas'!"

"Bootsy!" they complained.

While James and Mike scooped up the treats, Bootsy rummaged through numerous boxes. He tossed aside 13 Dead End Drive, Mouse Trap, and Doggie Doo. Finally, he scooped up a bunch of Play-Doh and several of its accessories before dropping them all on the ground.

"Dude, be careful," James chastised.

"It's Play-Doh; ya' can't break Play-Doh!"

"I can break your ass," the game reviewer fired back.

"Easy, James," Mike said.

James huffed and puffed, frowning and staring wide eyed. He took a deep breath, relaxed, and thunder rumbled through the basement, causing them all to recoil in surprise. While Mike popped the lid off one can and took a sniff of the Doh, Bootsy scooped some onto his finger and stuck it in his mouth.

"Stop it, asshole," James bellowed. "You're gonna' throw up again, and I'm not cleanin' it up!"

"But it's so good, and it says non-toxic; you can eat as much as ya' want!"

"No, you can't," Mike snapped, snatching the can from his friend's hand.

"Wanna' play The Undercity," James asked. They didn't. "Clacks?" they didn't want to play that one either. "Betrayal at House on the Hill?"

"No," they replied in a tiresome tone.

Mike ran fingers through his hair. He bit his lip nervously, but got up to look through some of the games. He sorted through Donut Disaster, Nightmare, the Ouija Board, and found Halo: Fleet Battles, and Space Empires: Close Encounters. Meanwhile, Bootsy ate more Play-Doh, which he squeezed through a contraption that produced spaghetti-like strings. James shook his head in desperation.

"There's really only one game to play if we want to settle this once and for all," he said, cryptically.

Everyone stopped in their tracks to look at him. "That game's too hard," Bootsy said.

"It's too scary," Mike added.

"It's the night before Halloween—it's Mischief Night, guys—we gotta' play somethin' scary," James pouted. "Besides, we have to finish what we started…."

Huffing and groaning, Mike sat down beside James. He looked over, observing his friend's ruffled demeanor.

"We had five players when we started," he said. "James…until we find the others, we can't finish it."

"That's right, amigos," Bootsy chimed in. "Whatever happened to those two?"

"James killed–"

"I didn't kill anybody," James roared.

At that instant, the power flickered and went out. "Great," Mike sighed.

"I'm scared, James," Bootsy cried.

"Shut up, I'll get some candles," James answered.

In the dead of darkness, they heard their friend scuttle about. A moment later, sparks and flame lit the room. The game reviewer lit several candles and placed them throughout the basement. Ominous, dancing lights created disconcerting shadows. Everyone bore a frightful grimace, a deathly visage.

"Is Play-Doh flammable," Mike asked.

"Why," James wondered.

"Bootsy's holding it up to a candle."

"Stop it, you twit," James hollered.

"Sorry, fellas'," he smiled, bashfully.

"Well, it's dark, and we're stuck down here…for eternity," Mike began. The others gave him their attention. "We can bust out the Domino Rally."

"Ooh," Bootsy sounded enthralled.

"That shit takes for ever, and Bootsy'll just knock the pieces over before we set it up," James replied.

"Jenga," Mike asked.

"You're just gonna' cheat," James sighed.

"How am I gonna' cheat at Jenga?!"

"You'll slide your rectangle dick in place of the blocks," Bootsy chuckled.

"At least I have a dick," he fired back.

Chapter Six

Bob Creasy, Allen, and Sharon stood gaping at the brown door, which had been revealed after the exterminator cut away the drywall. While the newly weds traded a worried glance. Creasy looked done in.

"Well," he belched. "Excuse me. Lemme' get down there and take a look. Buckle up, though; chances are the basement's crawlin' with vermin."

He opened the door, and it creaked portentously. Beyond the door was only blackness, but Creasy reached in and flicked a switch, alighting the wooden steps into the house's underbelly. The steps also creaked as the heavy set fellow marched on down.

"Should we wait up here," Allen asked.

Sharon shrugged. "I'm sure he'll tell us when it's safe."

Both fidgeted for a moment. Time eased by. Neither said a word. Then, Creasy bellowed from down below.

"It's a game room!"

"A gay room," Allen asked, skeptically.

"Game room, dummy. C'mon."

She chuckled as they proceeded down the steps. At the end of the stairs, against the far wall, was a white sink. Allen approached and looked inside; there was an old Mr. Bucket toy. It looked cracked and dried. To this left was an opened door, and beyond it, Creasy was plunked down on a black futon. All around the room, shelves were built into the walls. There were board games, video games, televisions; it was like a museum of gaming's history from the late eighties.

"Everything looks good down here. Ain't nothin' getting' in. Ain't nothin' getting' out," Creasy heaved.

"So, wait, then what have I been hearing at night," Allen asked.

"Beats the Hell outta' me."

"But we're paying you to find out," Sharon snapped.

"Yep, and I found nothin'. That'll be three fifty."

"Three hundred and fifty dollars?" Sharon objected.

"Hey, I gotta' eat, too, and look around yas' this is a man cave, which you have now acquired," Creasy said, coming to his feet. "A check will do just fine."

Rolling his eyes, Allen led Creasy back upstairs. The exterminator claimed Allen had probably just heard the home settle, and since the basement had been blocked off, there was certainly a difference in the air pressure, which was probably what created the odd sounds. In disbelief, yet unable to raise a valid inquiry, Allen acquiesced to the man's expertise, wrote him a check, and sent him on his way. When he returned to the basement, Sharon had just come up the steps.

"Well," she mused, "I guess I've lost you for the next few days, huh?"

"Why? You like games, too; with this room, we can get all kinds of people down here to play on Friday nights."

"I guess, but I still have to finish decorating, and then I have to get us matching costumes; then, I have to get the right drinks and snacks, print out flyers, send out e-vites, and you, you're just going to rummage through all those games."

Allen smiled. She was right, of course. He brushed past her, marched down the steps, and took a look at the game room once again. When he shut the door, he saw an old poster for _The Twilight Zone_ show. Something about it struck him as menacing, and he recalled a scene, yet he didn't think it was from his past.

There were five people playing a hand drawn board game sprawled out over a foldable table. In fact, he saw that same table folded up and laying beside the futon. He stomped over to it, touched it, and then spotted something behind the futon. When he leaned over, he got the fright of his life; there was a skeleton.

"How the Hell did he miss that?!" He yoked the futon away to inspect the corpse, but it was just a prop, a funny, plastic skeleton gripping a guitar and wearing a fedora. "Phew."

"Allen?!"

Laughing to himself, he asked, "What, babe?"

"What did you find?"

"A great addition to our Halloween decorations. Get down here!"

By them time she made it to his location, he had the skeleton sitting on the futon.

"Cute," she smiled. "Lug it up the steps!"

"Sure."

Sharon decided to post it outside on a wicker, rocking chair. "We can put the bowl of candy in its lap."

"Sounds good."

Later that evening, after ordering a pizza and downing a few beers, the newly weds decided to revisit the game room. There were so many games from their childhood, they both started reminiscing about their nights spent with friends. Both of them recalled playing board games with three other guys; three weirdos.

"I remember one of those guys, he was always cheating," Sharon said.

"Yeah, yeah; I had a friend like that, too. I also knew a guy who always broke everything. He couldn't sit down or fart without knocking over a game, spilling a drink, or sending a bowl of chips to the ground."

"That's strange," she thought out loud, "I remember a guy like that…he always wore a Toronto Blue Jays cap."

They locked eyes. A tinge of fear ran through their bodies. They both recalled a similar kid.

"I…I also remember another guy in a cap. He was really strange, though; he was the guy that always invited us over. He's the one I said made us play these dumb games he made up himself…."

Their brows furrowed. Their hearts skipped beats. The rumble of distant thunder reverberated then.

"Well…that can't be right," she whispered.

"Maybe, it's just a coincidence? I mean, we all know people like that, and wearing a Blue Jays cap isn't that rare, right?"

"Right…right…."

Panic stricken, they laughed the whole thing off, making their way back upstairs in a tizzy. When Allen shut the door, they both stared at it for a moment. Then, they looked at one another again.

"We should probably get some rest," she suggested.

"I, uh…I need to do some editing," he replied.

"Well, don't work too late. I don't want you to wake me up when you get into bed."

"Won't I wake you up regardless?"

She frowned at him; a tiresome expression. He smiled, gave her a kiss goodnight, and while she got ready for bed, he went to the garage, cracked open his laptop, and opened a file for his latest novel. As he read through his most recent chapter, his mind wandered. The cellar was calling out to him; he had the sensation of sliding through a tunnel, and he heard children laughing, but it was staccato, echoing, almost dreamlike.

In a daze, he meandered through the house and suddenly found himself staring at the cellar door. He opened it, turned on the light, and slowly walked down the steps. In the game room, the Ouija Board sat on the ground before the futon. He stood there, gawking at it. _I didn't leave it out…._

The planchette was pointing right at him. Frightened but curious, he sat down.

"I mean, it's just a God damn game, right?" He picked up the planchette to inspect it. It was only a piece of plastic. He dropped it onto the board. "Is there anyone here?" Nothing happened. "Am I alone?" Still, nothing happened, so he laughed. Then, a loud crack made him jump to his feet; the water heater had kicked on. "Jesus fucking Christ, that scared the piss out of me!"

Angered and embarrassed by his own reaction, he turned around to leave, but a strange sound made him turn back; the planchette was no longer where he had left it. Squinting at the game—his heart racing—he slowly sat back down.

"Am I alone," he asked with a crack in his voice.

The planchette moved of its own accord. It slid from one end of the board to the other and stopped on the word _no_. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he bolted out of the basement, to his bedroom, and yelled at his wife. He rambled incomprehensibly, so she turned on the lights, staring at him.

"Slow down! What are you saying?!"

"Sharon! I'm saying the God damned Ouija Board down there moved by itself! I asked if I was alone, and it moved to no!"

She didn't believe in ghosts or anything spooky, and she didn't think her husband did either, but there he was, pale as a ghost, on a tirade about a game. She wanted to tell him he was tired, stressed, but she didn't want to offend him, so she took his hand.

"Honey," she started.

"Don't honey me," he growled. "Just come downstairs and see for yourself!"

"O-okay, baby; let's go see."

She rolled out of bed. In silence, they walked to the basement door, which was closed.

"I didn't close this door," he whispered.

She looked into his eyes. He looked serious, frightened. She opened it, and they walked down the steps together. For an inexplicable reason, the _Twilight Zone Poster_ was on the wrong side of the door, which was also closed. In bewilderment, he shook his head, and explained to her that he hadn't closed that door either, and that the poster belonged on the backside of the door. A pang of fear struck her as well; she knew her husband wasn't crazy, and if he was saying something, it was probably true, or he really was starting to go off his rocker, which was a horrific thought. He nodded to her, and she opened that door, but beyond it was nothing; everything was as she had seen it when they were both down there before.

There was no Ouija Board, which made Allen choke on his own saliva. "Babe, I, I…I didn't put the game up."

They looked at each other for a second. Then, her face relaxed, and she smiled.

"Is it possible you fell asleep? You know, dozed off on the futon and had a bad dream?"

Anger contorted his face, and he opened his mouth to lash out at her, but the thought seemed appropriate. "I must have," he sighed. After wiping sweat from his forehead, he looked at her and smiled. "I must have just dozed off a second. I am writing a horror novel, so, yeah; I probably just fell asleep for a second and dreamt the whole thing. Jesus, what an ass. I'm so sorry."

She laughed and hugged him. "Oh, honey; it's all right. Come upstairs, come to bed, and you'll feel just fine tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Just gimme' a second. I need to save my work and shut off the computer."

"I'll come with you."

Laughing, he said it was okay. Back in the garage, as he shut off his laptop, a racket sounded. Branches were beating against the garage door.

"Wind's getting bad," she said.

Slack jawed, he gaped at the door. Through the slits of plastic, he saw the branches well enough, but he didn't recall a tree being right outside the garage. Too frightened to even consider the possibilities, he nodded to her, and they went off to bed.

Chapter Seven

"It's your roll," a voice claimed.

"Allen," someone said.

"Allen!"

Through blurred vision, Allen saw he was surrounded by people, but he didn't know who they were. It was dark, so he rubbed his eyes. Wherever he was, he was sitting, and there were four, other people; their faces grim by the light of wavering candles.

"Dude," a guy in a dark, ball cap said. "Roll the fucking dice!"

Coughing and taking deep breaths, Allen tried to recollect, he tried to make sense of what was happening. _I'm awake, aren't I?_ Slowly, everything came into view. He was sitting at the foldable table in the basement, and his friends were all there; Motherfucker Mike, the cheater, Bad Luck Bootsy, who knocked everything over, Board James, who always made them play, and Sharon, who was to his left.

He turned to glance at her, but under the flickering light, it was difficult to tell what was what. He then heard the rumble of thunder, and realized it was pouring rain out, but that wasn't the issue. There was something wrong with Sharon; she was slumping to her side, and her head was tilted back.

"Sharon," he asked.

"She's dead, man," Mike said. "It's your turn."

"Yeah, chuckle head," Bootsy added. "You gotta' roll, or we'll never get home."

Wide eyed, Allen looked from the saddened Mike, to the frightened Bootsy, to the scowling James, and then back to Sharon. She was dead; her throat was slit and blood had soaked into her blouse.

"What the fuck is going on here?!" Allen came to his feet. "Sharon?!"

He took her by the shoulders. Tilting her face, he looked her over. Shocked, in total disbelief, he felt his heart rip in two; the love of his life was dead, and he had no idea how it happened. Tears streamed from his eyes, and then, he suddenly remembered James had invited them all over to test his new, made-up game, the self titled, Board James the Game, which was little more than a compilation of their favorite games unified by a unique if incomprehensible set of rules.

"You did this," Allen accused.

James shrugged, saying, "She lost all her lives against the gargoyle."

"So, you slit her fucking throat? I'll kill you!"

Like a crazed beast, Allen dove for James, but Mike intervened. Everyone came to their feet, pushing, shoving, but James took refuge behind his chair.

"C'mon, Al," he said. "You know the rules. You agreed to play. Now, we just gotta' finish it!"

"Yeah, bro," Mike said. "Roll the dice. The sooner you go, the sooner I go, and hopefully, we can finish the piece of shit game before Mischief Night is over."

"I know I'd rather be out egging houses," Bootsy said.

Still incredulous, his chest heaving and his teeth gnashing, Allen glowered at the crew. Looking back, he saw Sharon had been knocked from her chair. Gingerly, he laid her on the futon.

"This can't be fucking happening," he mumbled, crying again. "Sharon? Sharon!"

Releasing a sigh, he knew what needed to be done; he had to call the police. After pulling away from his wife, he glanced at his friends and made for the door. _The Twilight Zone_ poster mocked him, but he turned the knob and tried to open the door.

"Can't leave until it's finished," James heaved. "You agreed to play…."

"Let me out of here," Allen shouted and kicked the door.

"Allen," Mike yelled.

"I'm scared," Bootsy cried.

The writer turned back to Mike. They locked eyes. Something about Mike's expression brought a jolt onto Allen. He bit his thumbnail.

"We all agreed to play," Allen said. "We didn't agree to be locked in your fucking basement!"

"That's not my fault," James replied.

"How did this happen?"

Allen pushed his hair back, glanced at Sharon's corpse, and sat back down. He dropped his face into his hands. Some of them were still demanding he roll the dice. He looked at his game pieces. Thanks to The Game of Life section of Board James, he had acquired a car, a house, and a wife, but that didn't explain why buying the house and being married had seemed so real. It was just that day that he had come home from school. _But that's not possible…we were kids then. We're adults now…._

"How did we get here," he groaned.

"Jeepers, Al," Bootsy started. "Dontcha' remember the warp zone?"

"Warp zone?" He looked to Bootsy with an expression of complete confusion.

Chuckling, James said, "Yeah, the warp zone. It happened while I was using the Ouija Board to ask the game about my next move. At that same time, Mike was reading from the Necronomicon, and Bad Luck Bootsy, naturally, rolled all ones, so the warp zone swallowed us. Now, the game is real…and no one can leave until it's finished."

"What does that mean?!"

The image of the warp zone, a swirling vortex of all colors, manifested among his thoughts, but he still didn't understand the rules of the game. In fact, no one aside from James knew what was going on, but he was a veritable madman.

"It means the game won't end until there's a winner," the game reviewer revealed.

"How do we win," Allen pressed him.

"There can be only one."

"Isn't that from _Highlander_ ," Mike winced, looking at James.

The young man shrugged indifferently. Anxious to bring about a conclusion, Allen rolled the dice. The two dice added to seven, and he moved his game piece along the board. He landed on a pit, which slid him down to Mr. Bucket. Everyone braced themselves.

"Oh, no," James croaked. "Not Mr. Bucket."

"Ah-huh-huh-hup," something laughed with an ominous echo. "I'm Mr. Bucket…I want your balls in my mouth…."

"What the fuck is that," Allen yelped.

"It's Mr. Bucket," Bootsy said. "He's comin' for your balls."

Everyone eased back from the table except Allen. He stared, wide eyed, awaiting the worst. Mr. Bucket rolled out from a darkened corner, vaulted itself into Allen's lap, and as he screamed bloody murder, blood sprayed up from under the table. It covered the man, the game, the table, the floor, and then the toy leapt onto the table, and spit out a testicle. Still screaming and crying while the others cringed in terror, Allen fell over, grabbing his scrotum.

"Oh, my God," he yelled out. "Argh! My fucking balls!"

"Man, that's gotta' hurt," Mike chuckled. "Alright…my roll."

There was blood absolutely everywhere, but he nabbed the dice. While he shook them, Allen wriggled around on the ground. As soon as Mike tossed his roll, the Mr. Bucket hopped from the game and rolled away into the darkness, swallowed up by oblivion.

After moving his piece, Mike said, "Fuck, I gotta' draw a death card."

From the pile of death cards on the table, he drew a hangman's noose. "Well, you know what that means," James said. He produced a noose seemingly from nowhere, looped it over Mike's head, threw the end of the rope over a pipe, and yoked downwards. Mike was pulled from his seat, choking and retching as his tongue protruded from his lips. A moment later, he was dead. "At least he still has three lives left. Wait a minute, he already died once; that fucking cheater. How does he still have three lives?"

"That's Mike," Bootsy said.

At that point, it was James's roll. He landed on a Play-Doh Fun Factory space. Biting his lip nervously, the game reviewer turned to Bootsy, who pulled his hat down low in an effort to hide is face in fear.

"Guess I'd better get it over with," James said.

He popped the lid off a can of Play-Doh, ate a fistful, and holding his breath, he puffed out his cheeks. Groaning and shaking in his seat, he started to scream. Next, catching his breath, he reached down into his trousers to pull out a star shaped chunk of Doh.

"I just pissed a Play-Doh star," he choked.

"What does that do," Bootsy asked.

"I can place it on my current position, so that if I land on a space I don't like, I can go back to the star piece."

By then, Allen crawled back into his chair to witness Bootsy's roll. Since his roll amounted to four, he moved to a space, which read: _What a horrible night to have a curse_. The goofball coughed, choked, and rattled about. A violent seizure sent him to the ground, and when he stood up, he was a zombie; his face was rotted, his lips were hanging, his tongue was gray, and he reached into his pants to pull out his dead dick.

"Lost another dick, fellas'," he claimed before sitting down.

James shook his head, frowning.

Chapter Eight

"Welcome back, cheater," James said.

Mike was back to life. He rubbed his neck before looking over to Bootsy. The frightful sight of the ghoul made him jump out of his seat.

"Whoa, what the fuck happened to him?"

"He landed on a curse," James replied. "It's your roll again."

"Okay," Mike said. After rolling, he landed on a Ouija Board square. "Oh, no."

"No, that's good," James grinned, but there was something unsettling about his face. "Here you go."

His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained cold and hard, flickering from candlelight. He then lifted a demonic rendition of the Ouija Board onto the table. It was red and black with horns growing from the corners. The horrified expression on Mike's face forced a cackle from the game reviewer.

Stammering, Mike said, "I-I, don't wanna' use, use it…."

"You have to use it, unless you want to pass it."

"How do I pass it?"

"Anytime you want to pass a summons, you add a body part to the Hangman game piece."

"But I just died" Mike complained.

"It's up to you, asshole."

Allen looked them over. The pain in his groin was insurmountable, but he was wondering what the Ouija Board afforded him. James had said it allowed one to ask a question, and he needed to know something.

"I'll take it. How does it work?"

"You just touch the planchette and ask your question," James replied.

"Hold on," Mike interjected. "I didn't agree to pass."

"Just pass it to me, bro!"

"Stop fightin' amigos," Bootsy cried. "We're in this together, 'kay?"

Glaring at Mike, Allen nodded. Begrudgingly, Mike added a body part to his Hangman counter, which left him missing only his legs. James then slid the board closer to Allen before dropping three planchettes onto the board; they swished on over to the top two corners and one in the middle.

"Whoa, hold on, now…no one said anything about three planchettes. I mean, what do I do? Do I touch one, or all three, or…."

Shrugging and taking a shot in the dark as the rain continued pounding and thunder roared, Allen reached out for the center planchette. It recoiled, hovered from the board, and flew right into his eye. Hollering in shear misery, Allen tore the plastic piece from his face and flung it. It flew circles around the rooming, bouncing off Bootsy's head and knocking his cap off. James ducked from the onslaught, but Mike was too slow, and the thing sank fangs into his ear.

"Get it off me! Get it off me!" he cried.

"Bro," James yelled. "You gotta' say the words first!"

"Words? What words?" Allen shouted.

"You know the words. I told you at the beginning of the game!"

While Mike was running around the room, crashing into everything, and wrestling with the planchette, Allen wracked his brain. The only words he recalled were nonsensical, and with the immense pain from losing a testicle, he came up wanting. Looking to James, who nodded stoically, dissonant words finally came to the writer.

"Buffalo…diarrhea…dog–" Allen stopped short. He was confused. He wasn't able to recall the last word. "Soda…seltzer…shaky…. It was an s-word…definitely an s-word…." He glanced around the dark room. By the light of candles, he still saw Mike bouncing off the walls, knocking other games to the ground. Bootsy had his hat over his face, cowering, and James remained expectant. Allen casually looked left. He looked right. "Buffalo, diarrhea, dog-shcnizinhurramph. There…I said 'em." The planchette attacking Mike returned to the center of the board, so Allen laid his fingers on it. "What happens if someone wins?"

Slowly, the plastic pointer moved to letters. F-U-C-K-Y-O-U. Everyone raised a brow in wonder. Mike rubbed blood from his ear.

"Fuck you," Allen squeaked. "What the fuck kind of answer is that?!"

"Bro, you didn't say the words," James laughed.

"I said 'em. I did!"

"Did you say the exact words?"

"Well, look, maybe I didn't say every, single, little, tiny syllable, no, but basically I said 'em, yeah."

Shaking his head, James claimed he had not said the exact words, and that because of that, he forfeited his next turn. Not that it mattered much; it was James's go.

"You gotta' be more careful," he said. "This game is…it's dangerous, more vile and duplicitous than even Deadly Danger Dungeon!"

"Fuck you, James," Allen spat. "I just want to end this! I want to bring Sharon back!"

"Why? Is she your girrrlfriend or somethin'" Bootsy joked.

"Yeah," Mike laughed. "You gay for her?"

"What? How? What the fuck is the matter with you people?!"

The _clacking_ from James moving his piece along the board interrupted their bickering. He landed on a monster square, which meant drawing a monster card. He reached for the pile, drew the top card, and flipped it over. His face sank at the corners, and his chin moved upwards while a scowl worked over his visage. He dropped the card to show Mr. Hide.

Bright flashes and deafening crackles sent everyone to the deck. Seconds of fear spiked. Then, everything went quiet. When they all recovered, they saw James had changed. No longer was Board James present. In his place was a most angry nerd, a video game nerd. His dark cap was gone. He was wearing a collared, white shirt with a pocket protector and several pens. He had eye glasses on his face, and from behind the lenses, hidden by the reflection of wavering, candle flames, the nerd leered at his chums.

"What the fuck kind of shitty game is this," he yelled. "I mean, what were they thinking? People can't just shit out a bunch of existing games and stick 'em all together; that's fuckin' madness! You got assholes killin' each other, toys comin' to life, Jekyll and Hide!" he growled. "Fuck this game! It's vomit out of a horse's ass. It's jizz from a bull's snout! It fuckin' sucks. It suckin' fucks, and I don't want any part of it!"

"James," Mike yelled.

"What the cunt do you want, shit dick? And why the fuck is there a dead bitch on the couch? Are you wrinkle pusses fucking retarded?!"

"Um, technically, it's a futon," Bootsy said.

Scowling, the nerd turned to the young man. "It's your turn, dickless wonder!"

"Beenie weenies," Bootsy exclaimed. "I'll give it a go…."

Allen gave the nerd a sideways glance, but the man simply stared back. "Aren't you the dumbass who's always playing games he hates?"

"So, what the fuck's it to you," nerd shouted.

"I just don't understand why you do that. I mean, it isn't like you're forced to play shitty games."

"I'm forced to play this one!"

"But you made this game," Allen fired back.

"I didn't make it! I only play video games! That pussy, loser Board James likes to wipe his ass with board games. Who the fuck wants to sit down with a group of skunk sucking ass ticklers and roll some fucking dice?!"

"I rolled a nine," Bootsy said.

"Well, Merry fuckin' Christmas," nerd grunted.

"What's it say," Mike asked.

"I don't know. I can't read."

"You can't read?!" everyone screamed.

"Gee fluckle-fucks, fellas', you know I can't read," Bootsy apologized.

"Maybe if you spent less time sucking your own dick, you could park your nose in a book instead of your own cum crack," nerd yelled.

Bootsy started crying again. Mike leaned over the table, tossing the Ouija Board from the game.

"It says go back one full round…."

"Does that mean that everything that just happened to us is nullified," Allen asked.

Mike shrugged, but nerd said, "You guys are assholes."

More lightning flashed before their eyes. When their vision cleared, and their ears stopped ringing, they looked one another over. James had in fact returned, and the dice sat before Allen. He noticed Mike's game piece was placed several squares before the Ouija Board, and since it was his turn, he shook his head, rubbed his eye to find it was no longer injured, and rolled the dice.

"Four," Allen stated.

"That's a 13 Dead End Drive spot," James said. "Draw a card."

Furrowing his brow, Allen drew from the Dead End Drive pile. The card he drew showed a picture of James. He showed it to everyone.

"Ha, ha," Mike stuck his tongue out and blew. "That means James dies."

Allen looked to James. He kept a hard expression. A moment eased by, but nothing happened.

"How, how does it work?"

"You gotta' kill me," James said.

"What? I can't do that!"

"You have to, dude," Mike yowled.

Allen made to raise his hands. He wanted to wipe sweat from his face, but there was a knife in his right hand. He looked at the blade; it gleamed under the light of candles, so he looked up to meet James's steely eyes. Thunder bellowed from outside.

"You don't have any extra lives…if I kill you, that's it," Allen was astonished.

"Do it! Put me out of my misery," James declared. "I can't live like this anymore…."

As Allen glanced at his friends, they each nodded in return. He pushed his chair back, came to his feet, and approached James. He then moved behind him, lifted his chin, and slit his throat. Blood gushed from the gaping gash, covering the game. James's head crashed to the table when Allen let go to stare at his bloodied hands.

"Good," Mike heaved. "Two down…two to go…."

"I'm scared," Bootsy said. "Why didn't we just fuckin' play Candy Land?!"

When he mashed his hat down onto his head, his rotten ears fell off. Mike laughed before rolling.

Chapter Nine

"I landed on Cross Fire," Mike exclaimed, pumping his fist. "Cross Fiah'," he sang in a falsetto voice, "Cross Fiah', Cross Fiah'!"

A Cross Fire launcher materialized before Mike. He pointed it at Bootsy and let loose round after round of tiny, metal balls. Each one flew with such a speed, they blew right through the rotten zombie. All manners of chunks of flesh, skin, and bone went crashing against the walls, the ceiling, more fell to the floor, and all the while Mike sang _Cross Fire._

"Jesus Christ," Allen choked. "Is he dead?"

"He sure looks it."

Bootsy, in fact, slumped out of his chair. What was left of him pooled on the floor. Shaking his head in despair, Allen just scrutinized the carnage.

"Well," he mused, wiping his face and flinging errant Bootsy bits, "at least we're down to two…but…."

"But," Mike asked. "Roll."

"I only have one life left, and you have three…because you cheated."

"How the fuck am I cheating? Don't you think this Hell spawn of a game would punish me for cheating?"

"Well, it's an evil game, and you're evil, so no, probably not."

"Roll! We're almost done."

"Okay," he huffed.

It came up eleven. Allen landed on another Dead End Drive spot, so he drew a card, and sure enough, there was a picture of Mike. When Allen looked at his hands, he had no weapon, and wondered how to kill his friend, when suddenly, a chandelier came crashing down, sending shards of skull in all directions. Allen recoiled from the mess, which struck his face. He wiped goo from his lips and spit. The image of Mike flickered, vanished along with the chandelier, and a fresh Mike manifested.

"I lost another one," he said.

"Your turn."

"I'm gonna' win," Mike smiled.

"Fuckin' roll!"

"No, I'm gonna' play a spell card."

"Spell card? Cheating again?!"

"I'm not cheating, fucker."

"You're the fucker, the motherfucker, Mike."

"Jealous much?"

"Play your card," Allen growled.

"Here it is; rusty crap."

"I think it's trap."

"No, it says crap, and look at the picture."

"Yeah, it's crap, alright; this whole fucking thing is crap."

"Leave it to Board James to put together some asinine child's game," Mike complained. "Anyway, the rusty crap makes the target player roll only one movement die for the next three turns."

"That's shitty."

"Don't I know it…."

"Give me the die then," Allen demanded.

"It's still my turn."

"But you played a spell card!"

"But I didn't lose my turn," he fired back and rolled. "Eight, fuck."

"What is it now?"

"It's a Tornado Rex space."

"And?"

"It says to crank Rex up as many times as the number rolled to land on this space."

"That's eight cranks, dude; you're not supposed to crank Rex more than three times."

"I have to!"

Throwing his hands up in angry resignation, Allen acquiesced. He watched Mike crank the toy six times before he went to put it on the peak at the center of the board.

"No, no, no, no!" Allen intervened by placing his hand in the way. "Eight times! I don't want to see what happens when someone cheats. It's probably a forfeit, and then we're all fucked!"

"Okay, geez."

Mike cranked it two more times and stuck it on the board. Allen nibbled at his thumbnail while his friend pressed a button, which released Rex, who bounced from one edge of the table to the next, halted by a formerly invisible barrier, one that glowed blue when struck by the toy, which just kept bouncing all over the place, sending game pieces flying. Finally, Rex's momentum died out, and it fell over.

Both men went to right their pieces, but they were glued to the board. There was no way to move the pieces; they had landed where they had landed, and that was the end of it. The two passed a worried look.

"Where'd you land," Mike asked.

"Where'd _you_ land?!"

"It's _your_ turn, so…where'd you land?"

"Weapons and Warriors. It says to blow the shit out of your enemies with a cannon."

"That's not fair," Mike grumbled.

Allen turned in his seat. He looked one way and the other, but he saw only corpses. Then, to their utter amazement, two knights in full field plate rolled a cannon from sheer darkness to the table. They bowed to Allen and stepped back.

"Hah, fuck you, Mike. Eat steel!"

"I think it's iron," Mike yelped, but Allen had already rounded the cannon.

He pulled a rope at the back end, which caused flint to strike and light a wick. It burned for a second, and the writer stuck his fingers in his ears, grinning. Mike scrambled to get away, but the blast erupted, and an immense, iron ball blew him to shit; it literally popped Mike like a water balloon.

"Fuck, yeah; that one's for you, Sharon. Hopefully…if this ends, I won't be left alone in this dank basement for eternity."

"Holy shit, that fucking hurt," Mike said, stepping into the light from a darkened corner. He took his seat. "My turn." He leaned in to see where his piece was. "Make a call to those beyond…?"

"What's that mean?"

Mike shrugged. Just then, a phone rang. He turned to his right to find the Dream Phone sitting on top of a stack of games. It rang and rang, but he didn't reach for it.

"Answer it," Allen demanded. "We're almost done."

"It said to make a call, not get a call."

"I don't know what to tell you, oh yeah, answer it!"

"Okay. You don't have to yell," the young man said, moving his hand in a placating manner. Scratching his head in exasperation, Allen waited for Mike's mystery caller to reveal something beneficial. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mike, it's James…how ya' doin'?"

"I'm alright."

"Who is it," Allen asked, tugging at his crotch and pulling free a bloody hand.

"Shut up, I'm on the phone."

"What," James asked.

"Nothing, I'm talking to Allen."

"Well, what do you want," James howled.

"Me? You called me. What do _you_ want?"

"Oh, I just wanted to say that your dream date isn't wearing long pants. Bye."

"Oh, thanks very fuckin' much," Mike puffed, tossing the phone aside.

"Is it my turn," Allen asked.

"Evidently."

After rolling a six, Allen landed on a space, which stated to move to the closest space allowing a player to draw a card. Befuddled, he looked over to Mike. The man winced and shrugged.

"Do I have to move forwards," Allen asked. "If I do then I have to draw a monster card, but if I can move in any direction, I can reach the Dead End Drive pile, which means you'll die, and I'll win."

"You have to go forwards," Mike replied with a self assured nod.

"You're just saying that."

"No, it's true."

"You don't know that, you just don't want to lose!"

"Neither do you!"

"Fuck!" Allen threw a fist into his open palm. "Okay, I'll go forwards." Slowly, he moved his game piece another three spaces and left it on the draw a monster card spot. From the pile, he pulled a card, and as his heart raced, and sweat dripped down the side of his face, he turned the card over to look at it. "Godzilla?!"

No sooner had the two men locked eyes that the entire basement rumbled. It wasn't thunder; it was more like an earthquake, but the noise was drowned out by a piercing shriek. They knew Godzilla was stalking the neighborhood. Whole chunks of the ceiling crashed down, knocking candles over, setting games on fire, water spilled from broken pipes, the table split in half when the upper floor caved in, and as the game burst aflame, and the men screamed, and everything shook, and the whole house caved in, another, monstrous shriek resounded.

The king of monsters tore the entire structure from its foundation. Mike and Allen grabbed a hold of each other, staring into the flickering, night sky. Soaking wet and standing a hundred and sixty four feet tall, the ravenous reptilian retched fire, stomped, and reached out a razor sharp claw. The two friends just shut their eyes, screaming, crying for a merciful God. Then, there was nothing.

Chapter Ten

"Godzilla takes a life from everyone, so it's a draw," a teenaged Mike cheered.

"Nu-uh," young Allen argued. "I won! I drew the card, and Godzilla kills you, so I win!"

"Guys, clam down," kid James chuckled. With a bright flash that caused the five kids to cringe, the power was restored. The storm had passed; the morning sun had vanquished the horrible night. Board James had been completed. "Now, wasn't that fun?"

"It was alright," Sharon laughed. "I would have rather played some video games or watched a movie."

"This was like a video game and a movie all put together," James said.

"Besides, Share," Allen said, "the power was out."

"I know," Mike laughed. "I though Bootsy was gonna' lose his shit."

"I weren't scared, fellas', honest!" he swore.

"So…that's the infamous Board James the Game, huh?" Allen mused, turning his lips in and nodding slowly.

"Yep," James beamed. "It took me two months to come up with everything. The warp zone was a new idea, though; it just came to me since Bootsy rolled two ones, and Mike read the Necronomicon while I had the Ouija Board."

"Yeah, fuck that," Mike interrupted. "Who won?"

"Uh," James wondered. "I guess it was a draw…."

Mike stuck his tongue out. "N'yeah, told you, loser."

"Shut up, dick face," Allen shouted.

"Take a breath, Al," Sharon smiled. She took his hand, which made him blush. "You're a winner to me."

"Ha-ha," Bootsy joked. "Allen and Sharon are in loooove!"

Everyone laughed at the two's expense, but the truth was that they had had a blast playing Board James; it was definitely innovative and consuming if nothing else. Since it was morning, and the power was back on, there was only one thing left to do; they had to put everything away.

"C'mon, jerk offs," James taunted. "Help me put this shit up."

"Gee, uh, I don't know," Bootsy said, tugging on his collar. "It's so late, and I gotta' get home."

"Yeah, I have to go, too. Bye," Sharon said and ran from the basement.

"Mike," James asked.

"I didn't even wanna' play. I'm not cleanin' this shit up," he said and started to leave.

"Yeah, fuck you, Board James," Allen added.

"At least put the candles out!" James demanded.

"I'll get 'em," Bootsy said, jumping from the chair.

As the boy ran to a candle and took a deep breath, the others yelled, "Bootsy!" It was too late, though, and the boy blew with all his might, knocking the candle over and setting the Board James board game on fire.

"Ain't I a stinker," Bootsy asked.

Thank you for reading my Board James fanfiction. If you liked it, review it; we all want to see a Board James movie, right?

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